Letters to the Dead
Betty Fulton took night shift at a West Philadelphia hospital because as an Emergency Room Nurse, she could stem the flow of blood better and quicker than anybody on staff. They knew it, she knew it, and when the victims of the local "knife and gun club" rolled in at 3 in the morning, they knew she would be there.
My mother hitched rides with roving street gang members in her nurses uniform in the middle of winter nights for a good reason. "Da boys" wanted to make sure she made it to the hospital. Later on that night, they could have use for her when shot or stabbed. They knew where "Betty" was, and when wheeled in, a wink and hand squeeze meant two things, they got special treatment, and she could count on a ride the following night.
It worked. The next morning, my sister Pat and I got a warm breakfast before we hit the bricks for school. Armed street gangs were a daily challenge in West Philadelphia back-in-the-day, and the "day" was 1953.
Nothing changes.
Pat, sister of mine, red hair aflame, was a Phys-Ed of note in senior high, and was the only girl I knew who entered John Bartram High School, a six term senior high and left it with eight (8) senior athletic letters. I sat quietly in the gym one afternoon and watched her, alone in the gym sinking baskets at half court.
That was only the beginning. In Dover, Delaware, my firebrand sister led a strike against the establishment to recognize girls soccer as a full-fledged sport within the athletic establishment. Years later, In Yuma, Arizona, as a Resource Teacher (handicapped students), she finally retired and was replaced by three (3) teachers. I was told she nearly invented the retirement.
She died in 2009.
I am told by those in the medical field who study cancer that one root cause is pent up hostility, anger, angst, frustration, denial, held in tightly without release, not given to free expression over many years.
Both my mother and sister died of breast cancer as did my late wife Janet Egner Thompson Fulton, locked into a 9 year marriage of frustration, silence and anger. She died in my arms on Good Friday, 1998.
We made up for it with 10 wonderfully happy years moving about the country, laughing, singing, dancing and living high up in the Colorado Rockys.
To her, and all those who suffer from the bonds of quiet, restrained anger, I write this letter to the dead - let loose. Life is not a dress rehearsal. As my late wife Janet said just before she died: " I should have eaten more ice cream."
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My mother hitched rides with roving street gang members in her nurses uniform in the middle of winter nights for a good reason. "Da boys" wanted to make sure she made it to the hospital. Later on that night, they could have use for her when shot or stabbed. They knew where "Betty" was, and when wheeled in, a wink and hand squeeze meant two things, they got special treatment, and she could count on a ride the following night.
It worked. The next morning, my sister Pat and I got a warm breakfast before we hit the bricks for school. Armed street gangs were a daily challenge in West Philadelphia back-in-the-day, and the "day" was 1953.
Nothing changes.
Pat, sister of mine, red hair aflame, was a Phys-Ed of note in senior high, and was the only girl I knew who entered John Bartram High School, a six term senior high and left it with eight (8) senior athletic letters. I sat quietly in the gym one afternoon and watched her, alone in the gym sinking baskets at half court.
That was only the beginning. In Dover, Delaware, my firebrand sister led a strike against the establishment to recognize girls soccer as a full-fledged sport within the athletic establishment. Years later, In Yuma, Arizona, as a Resource Teacher (handicapped students), she finally retired and was replaced by three (3) teachers. I was told she nearly invented the retirement.
She died in 2009.
I am told by those in the medical field who study cancer that one root cause is pent up hostility, anger, angst, frustration, denial, held in tightly without release, not given to free expression over many years.
Both my mother and sister died of breast cancer as did my late wife Janet Egner Thompson Fulton, locked into a 9 year marriage of frustration, silence and anger. She died in my arms on Good Friday, 1998.
We made up for it with 10 wonderfully happy years moving about the country, laughing, singing, dancing and living high up in the Colorado Rockys.
To her, and all those who suffer from the bonds of quiet, restrained anger, I write this letter to the dead - let loose. Life is not a dress rehearsal. As my late wife Janet said just before she died: " I should have eaten more ice cream."
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